WANDERING HOME WONDERING

Written Sunday, February 18, 2007
Seattle, Washington

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“Where’s home for you?”

An innocent enough question. Often asked in the early stages of a new acquaintance, especially when traveling. Usual meanings: Where do you live now? Where did you grow up? Where do you come from?

In an age of nomadic existence when many of us have moved often, the answer is usually not what’s in the place on an official form for “Place of Birth.” Shift the question to “Where would you go if you were required to go home?” Or ask, “Where do you feel most at home?” Sometimes an answer lies in “Where do you want to be buried when you die?” A final home.

There are many ways of being home. One is never to leave it. I think of those people I grew up with who still live in the same town I left long ago.
For some people, home is wherever their “stuff” is at the moment.
Another way is to travel around the world and finally, on retirement, go back to the place where you began. I know people who have done that.
Where most of your family is - that’s home - though with family often scattered all over the world, that’s harder to nail down for most people.
Another is to find home in another person - wherever they are is home for you. I know couples who are like that for one another.
And then there’s the ability to carry a sense of home inside you so that wherever you are, that’s home. That’s the fundamental one, isn’t it?

Home. Such a powerful notion. The need to feel rooted - to family, a circle of friends, a place, a people, a country, to the Earth itself. It often amazes me what people will put up with, suffer for, even die for out of an attachment to home.

Walking out in the rain late last night looking at the lights shining out of the houses I passed, I wondered if the people inside were at home. I wandered on home. Nobody was there but me. “Welcome home,” I said, as I went in the door. “Make yourself at home,” I said to me in reply. And I did.

robert fulghum